‘So do I,’ said Sir Willard, ‘when occasion serves. But I still fear that you may have stolen a march on us, Henry. If your brother calls on Villemot while that Jewell among women is there, he will be able to bring back gossip about her that only you will hear.’
‘Christopher is not given to passing on gossip.’
‘I agree,’ said Prout. ‘I’ve met him. Henry’s brother is a decent, honest, conscientious young man and, unless I am mistaken, he has another glaring defect — he is a devout Christian.’
‘That’s true, Elkannah. Our father is forever holding Christopher up as an example to me. My brother leads a good life while I prefer to lead an adventurous one.’
‘If you want someone to worry about, Sir Willard, it is not him. The real danger comes from within the Society.’
Sir Willard was puzzled. ‘How can that be?’
‘The person to watch is Jocelyn.’
‘Why — what has he been up to?’
‘Telling the truth,’ said Prout, ‘and it unnerved me. When we heard that Araminta had been married, all of us were shaken to the core but we three have at least accepted the situation and determined to make the best of it. Jocelyn will not accept it.’
‘He must,’ said Henry.
‘Facts are facts,’ added Sir Willard. ‘Araminta will not divorce her husband for our benefit.’
‘More’s the pity!’
‘Jocelyn wants to effect his own divorce,’ said Prout. ‘We spent last night together and I saw him in his cups. I’ve never known him so roused and belligerent.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘That he’ll not let anyone stand between him and Araminta. He’s set his heart on winning her love. Jocelyn told me that his mind is made up. If he cannot enjoy her favours by fair means, he’ll not scruple to resort to foul ones. His meaning was clear,’ warned Prout. ‘To achieve his ambition, he’s even prepared to murder Sir Martin Culthorpe.’
When she was finally released from the long morning session in the studio, Araminta Culthorpe was grateful. She was not merely spared the discomfort of sitting in the same position for an hour at a time, she was liberated from the searching gaze of Jean-Paul Villemot. The artist did not upset her again with any suggestive remarks but she no longer felt completely safe in his presence. Their relationship had subtly changed and Araminta needed to get away in order to examine the changes from a distance. As the carriage bore her back home to Westminster, she reflected on what had happened and speculated on what might come at a future meeting.
The problem confronting her was simple. Should she or should she not confide in her husband? And if so, what exactly should she tell him? Araminta could hardly say that she felt threatened in the artist’s company because that was not true. In essence, all that had happened was that he had made some inappropriate comments. Other ladies would no doubt have accepted them as compliments but, as a young woman newly married, she had been somehow unable to do so. She had felt vulnerable. Jean-Paul Villemot, in her opinion, had overstepped the bounds of propriety.
What she had to calculate, she decided, was her husband’s reaction. If she told him that she had been offended by the artist’s behaviour, he would cancel the portrait at once and engage someone else to paint it, and Araminta did not believe that anyone in London could rival Villemot. If, on the other hand, she made only a minor complaint, Sir Martin would feel obliged to challenge the artist and that, too, could result in the abandonment of the project.
However she presented it to him, Sir Martin would be hurt and she wanted to spare him any pain. For that reason, she resolved to sort out the matter herself without involving him in any way. After all, Araminta consoled herself, there would be no more sittings to endure. Unless he called her back, she and Villemot might never be alone in the same room again.
Having reached her decision, she felt much better. Her only concern now was to change out of the dress she had worn at the studio, ideal for the painting but not entirely suitable for a warm day in May. It was something she was more likely to wear to a formal event than put on at home for the day. When the carriage delivered her to her front door, she rang the doorbell. It never occurred to her that she was being watched by someone who stood on the opposite side of the road, partly concealed behind a tree.
Let into the house, Araminta went straight upstairs to change with her maid on her heels. Eleanor Ryle was pleased to see her mistress return. A bright, open-faced, inquisitive young woman with a mop of brown hair, Eleanor helped her out of her dress.
‘Monsieur Villemot chose well,’ she said, stroking the material. ‘This has always been my favourite.’
‘Then you may get a chance to wear it, Eleanor.’
‘Me, m’lady?’
‘Monsieur Villemot does not need to keep me sitting there for hours while he paints the dress,’ said Araminta. ‘Someone else can wear it in my stead and he suggested you.’
‘But he doesn’t even know that I exist.’
‘Yes, he does. He noticed you when he called here.’
Eleanor giggled. ‘Really?’
‘He thought that the dress would fit you perfectly.’
‘Oh, I could never wear it as you do, m’lady. It becomes you. On me, it would not look the same at all.’
‘I wonder,’ said Araminta, weighing her up. ‘Let me see. Hold it against you, Eleanor.’
‘Yes, m’lady.’
Taking a step back, the maid held the dress up against her, grinning happily as she did so, as if a private dream was just being fulfilled. Eleanor was short enough and slim enough to wear it even though the dress was not the ideal colour for her. Araminta studied her for a full minute.
‘I believe that it will do,’ she said.
Eleanor was overjoyed. ‘Then I am to wear it?’ she cried.
‘We’ll see. I need to discuss the matter with my husband.’
‘Of course.’
‘Where is he, by the way?’
‘Smoking a pipe in the garden,’ replied Eleanor. ‘He asked me to call him as soon as you returned.’
‘Well, let me dress quickly,’ said Araminta, crossing to the wardrobe. ‘I don’t want to keep him waiting.’
Sir Martin Culthorpe was a creature of habit. Twice a day, he always liked to smoke a pipe and the garden was the place in which he preferred to smoke it. Even on cold days, or when it was raining, he would venture outdoors and shelter in the arbour while he puffed away. Only heavy snow or a violent thunderstorm could confine his pipe to the house. It was not merely the pleasure of inhaling the tobacco that he savoured. Sir Martin was a contemplative man and a stroll in his garden was the perfect time to reflect on the issues that preoccupied him.
By comparison with the garden on his country estate, the one in Westminster was quite small but it was still large enough for him to promenade for five minutes or so without retracing his steps. Formal in design, it had endless trees and neat rows of bushes dividing it up and creating private corners where he could sit without being visible from the house. At the centre of the garden was a large pond with a fountain in the shape of Neptune, and there was a great deal of other statuary dotted here and there.
Pulling on his pipe, he strode along between an avenue of mulberry trees, wondering how his wife had fared at her latest sitting. Sir Martin still could not believe his good fortune in having married Araminta Jewell and he vowed to devote the rest of his life to her. What he did not realise, as he turned leisurely into a shaded grotto, was that his life was just about to come to an end.